SPN Fic: Flying Blind (Dean/Castiel)
May. 8th, 2009 01:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityofoneI stayed up until 2 a.m. writing this to try to make myself feel better. It maybe sort of worked?
Title: Flying Blind
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Through 4x21
Length: 1,400 words
Summary: Castiel experiences a sad case of genre blindness.
Author’s Note: Many, many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bmouse and siriaeve for looking this over.
Flying Blind
Castiel has never watched a movie. He is aware of movies, of course; he has been in rooms—grand old theaters heavy with organ music; modern multiplexes with reclining chairs and sticky floors; comfortable family dens; countless interchangeable motels—rooms where movies of all types flickered in the background. But he has never really watched one beyond a glance, beyond the movement of a few frames. He is an angel. He has other things to do.
Castiel has read very few books. The Bible, of course—in numerous editions and translations. The works of the prophet Chuck. Once he even leafed through the pages of a ratty paperback stuffed in Dean’s duffle bag, but even the chance of possible insights into his charge’s psyche was not enough to interest Castiel in the words of some inconsequential human writer. He does not see the point of fiction when reality is so complex, when it is right in front of him.
So in a way it’s not his fault that he doesn’t see it: that he doesn’t know that there’s really only one way this type of story is going to end.
Castiel is on his knees. It is a position of submission, of penance. It is a pose that says, I know that I have done wrong and I am sincerely and profoundly sorry. His head is bowed, his wings stretched out behind him—though there is a part of him, still a part, that wants nothing more than to wrap them around his body, to protect himself from more of the pain he has just endured.
But mostly what he feels is new resolve. His superiors are correct: there is no room for doubt. There is only one way this can possibly go.
Cas stumbles and sinks to his knees. With shaky hands he reaches out, feels the rough denim of Dean’s jeans, the comforting heft of his thighs. He looks up and Dean is all that he sees: steady and strong as a marble plinth. And what Dean is doing is looking down on him, and it is the figurative meaning that Cas finally understands, that he grasps. He sees the grimace twisting across Dean’s features and he wants nothing more than to blot it out, to make Dean feel how deeply he is sorry, his true and honest pain and regret. But the words he might once have uttered, the confident pronouncements from above, are lost to him, and instead he finds himself pushing his dirty, tear-stained face up against Dean’s body like an animal. So this is the desperate necessity of flesh against flesh. This is all he is now.
“I learned my lesson while I was away, Dean. I serve Heaven, I don’t serve Man. And I certainly don’t serve you.”
He says the words with conviction. This is the way it has to be.
He thinks he knows what will happen next. Dean Winchester does not forgive easily, especially when it comes to trespasses against his family. That is sacred territory, and what Castiel did—every step he took, every order he followed—was profane.
These are the rules that Castiel understands.
So, he sees it already in his mind’s eye, his newly rich imagination: Dean will push him away. Shove him angrily, hard. He will, perhaps, hurt him—though really there is no worse pain Cas can imagine than that first push, no farther he can envision falling.
He is braced for the blow, ready for it, almost eager (the waiting truly is the hardest part), and then there is—nothing. No, not nothing: Dean sucks in a breath, and then his hand is in Cas’ hair, on his head like he is giving him benediction. “Jesus, Cas, don’t,” he says. “Don’t do this.”
Cas is still clinging to him; he feels pathetic, an emotion he already knows he doesn’t like. The frown continues to draw an angry slash across Dean’s face. “I can’t,” Cas breathes, his voice scraping awkwardly against his throat, the timbre not his own, “I don’t know what else—”
“Stop it. Stop it.” And suddenly Dean is down there on the ground with him, muddying his own knees. He grabs Cas’ arms, holds him by the shoulders. “We all fuck up, okay? We all fuck up real bad sometimes. But then what we do, us humans”—the corner of his mouth twitches up into something that is almost a grin, but not quite, and Cas finds his own mouth twitching with it—“we pick ourselves up and get back in the game, start seeing what we can do to fix it. All right?”
Clearly he is expecting some response. Cas attempts a nod and is shocked and dismayed when something that sounds suspiciously like a sob pushes itself out of his throat. He hurts all over. The only thing he can think of that would make it better would be if he got down lower, if he made himself humble and begged for forgiveness.
But Dean is having none of it. “Hey!” he says. Forcing Cas to stay up. “Hey. I know what you did for me. I know. And it was enough, Cas, more than enough. More than I—” He stops, swallows; and Cas remembers how human Dean truly is. How flawed.
“It’s enough, Cas,” Dean says. His hands have moved up now, his palm warm and rough against Cas’ cheek. “We got plenty of broken people hanging around here already,” he says, moving his thumb, seemingly unaware, smoothing away the grime on Cas’ face. “We don’t need any more.”
Cas can feel himself leaning into the touch like a flower turning toward the sun. He closes his eyes, concentrates on the process of pulling air into his lungs, of breathing, of keeping himself alive.
“I can be strong for you,” he says. “I promise.”
“Good,” Dean says. It’s a line on which he should stand up, project for them both his resolve, but instead he stays, kneeling by Cas’ side, looking into his eyes.
“You and me,” he says, “we’re going to see this through to the end.”
He makes Dean promise, makes him pledge himself to the cause. For Heaven to triumph, Dean must set aside his petty human foibles, his litany of sins—gluttony, wrath, sloth, lust. He must become a true warrior, be made a hammer. Just like Castiel.
It is the only way. So spake the angels of the Lord.
They lie on the bed. The covers hang loose, down around their ankles. Dean is watching TV with the volume low, his attention only half-focused on the screen. Cas is deeply immersed in his library book. He feels, turning the pages, like a blind man newly gifted with sight: they knew. All these writers, these sowers of stories, these tellers of tales—they are not prophets like Chuck Shirley, and yet they could see what Castiel could not. What Heaven did not. The ending: maybe not the only one, maybe not even the most likely, but the most honest, the most true.
Beside him, he hears Dean shift: he has grown bored, and is finding the remote, shutting off the TV. Cas waits, happily, patiently, and then, as he knows he will, Dean turns and wraps his arm around Cas’ bare chest. Cas sets his book aside without regrets.
He must be smiling, because although Dean smiles back, a curious crease appears on his forehead. “What are you thinking about?”
Cas eases himself into the embrace. “They knew about love, Dean.”
“Yeah?” Dean says, like he doesn’t really know what Cas is talking about. But it doesn’t matter: whether or not he understands the conversation, he understands.
And Cas is sick of talking anyway.
Soon they are naked together, and Cas is tasting the salt on Dean’s skin, feeling his warmth and his weight and all the ways they can fit together, come together, come. Dean’s body under Cas’ hands is as solid as rock and as soft as clay, and Cas holds him by the hips and kisses him until they are both relaxed and pliant: lying together in the dark, naked and unashamed.
This is how, this is always how, the story begins.
NOTES:
1. Genre Blindness, for the uninitiated. A real problem I think the angels might have. Though of course it may work out better for Cas when the genre in question is “slash fanfic” as opposed to the show’s “angsty angsty manpain.”
2. A certain line taken directly from 4x20, obviously.
Title: Flying Blind
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Through 4x21
Length: 1,400 words
Summary: Castiel experiences a sad case of genre blindness.
Author’s Note: Many, many thanks to
bmouse and siriaeve for looking this over.Flying Blind
Castiel has never watched a movie. He is aware of movies, of course; he has been in rooms—grand old theaters heavy with organ music; modern multiplexes with reclining chairs and sticky floors; comfortable family dens; countless interchangeable motels—rooms where movies of all types flickered in the background. But he has never really watched one beyond a glance, beyond the movement of a few frames. He is an angel. He has other things to do.
Castiel has read very few books. The Bible, of course—in numerous editions and translations. The works of the prophet Chuck. Once he even leafed through the pages of a ratty paperback stuffed in Dean’s duffle bag, but even the chance of possible insights into his charge’s psyche was not enough to interest Castiel in the words of some inconsequential human writer. He does not see the point of fiction when reality is so complex, when it is right in front of him.
So in a way it’s not his fault that he doesn’t see it: that he doesn’t know that there’s really only one way this type of story is going to end.
Castiel is on his knees. It is a position of submission, of penance. It is a pose that says, I know that I have done wrong and I am sincerely and profoundly sorry. His head is bowed, his wings stretched out behind him—though there is a part of him, still a part, that wants nothing more than to wrap them around his body, to protect himself from more of the pain he has just endured.
But mostly what he feels is new resolve. His superiors are correct: there is no room for doubt. There is only one way this can possibly go.
Cas stumbles and sinks to his knees. With shaky hands he reaches out, feels the rough denim of Dean’s jeans, the comforting heft of his thighs. He looks up and Dean is all that he sees: steady and strong as a marble plinth. And what Dean is doing is looking down on him, and it is the figurative meaning that Cas finally understands, that he grasps. He sees the grimace twisting across Dean’s features and he wants nothing more than to blot it out, to make Dean feel how deeply he is sorry, his true and honest pain and regret. But the words he might once have uttered, the confident pronouncements from above, are lost to him, and instead he finds himself pushing his dirty, tear-stained face up against Dean’s body like an animal. So this is the desperate necessity of flesh against flesh. This is all he is now.
“I learned my lesson while I was away, Dean. I serve Heaven, I don’t serve Man. And I certainly don’t serve you.”
He says the words with conviction. This is the way it has to be.
He thinks he knows what will happen next. Dean Winchester does not forgive easily, especially when it comes to trespasses against his family. That is sacred territory, and what Castiel did—every step he took, every order he followed—was profane.
These are the rules that Castiel understands.
So, he sees it already in his mind’s eye, his newly rich imagination: Dean will push him away. Shove him angrily, hard. He will, perhaps, hurt him—though really there is no worse pain Cas can imagine than that first push, no farther he can envision falling.
He is braced for the blow, ready for it, almost eager (the waiting truly is the hardest part), and then there is—nothing. No, not nothing: Dean sucks in a breath, and then his hand is in Cas’ hair, on his head like he is giving him benediction. “Jesus, Cas, don’t,” he says. “Don’t do this.”
Cas is still clinging to him; he feels pathetic, an emotion he already knows he doesn’t like. The frown continues to draw an angry slash across Dean’s face. “I can’t,” Cas breathes, his voice scraping awkwardly against his throat, the timbre not his own, “I don’t know what else—”
“Stop it. Stop it.” And suddenly Dean is down there on the ground with him, muddying his own knees. He grabs Cas’ arms, holds him by the shoulders. “We all fuck up, okay? We all fuck up real bad sometimes. But then what we do, us humans”—the corner of his mouth twitches up into something that is almost a grin, but not quite, and Cas finds his own mouth twitching with it—“we pick ourselves up and get back in the game, start seeing what we can do to fix it. All right?”
Clearly he is expecting some response. Cas attempts a nod and is shocked and dismayed when something that sounds suspiciously like a sob pushes itself out of his throat. He hurts all over. The only thing he can think of that would make it better would be if he got down lower, if he made himself humble and begged for forgiveness.
But Dean is having none of it. “Hey!” he says. Forcing Cas to stay up. “Hey. I know what you did for me. I know. And it was enough, Cas, more than enough. More than I—” He stops, swallows; and Cas remembers how human Dean truly is. How flawed.
“It’s enough, Cas,” Dean says. His hands have moved up now, his palm warm and rough against Cas’ cheek. “We got plenty of broken people hanging around here already,” he says, moving his thumb, seemingly unaware, smoothing away the grime on Cas’ face. “We don’t need any more.”
Cas can feel himself leaning into the touch like a flower turning toward the sun. He closes his eyes, concentrates on the process of pulling air into his lungs, of breathing, of keeping himself alive.
“I can be strong for you,” he says. “I promise.”
“Good,” Dean says. It’s a line on which he should stand up, project for them both his resolve, but instead he stays, kneeling by Cas’ side, looking into his eyes.
“You and me,” he says, “we’re going to see this through to the end.”
He makes Dean promise, makes him pledge himself to the cause. For Heaven to triumph, Dean must set aside his petty human foibles, his litany of sins—gluttony, wrath, sloth, lust. He must become a true warrior, be made a hammer. Just like Castiel.
It is the only way. So spake the angels of the Lord.
They lie on the bed. The covers hang loose, down around their ankles. Dean is watching TV with the volume low, his attention only half-focused on the screen. Cas is deeply immersed in his library book. He feels, turning the pages, like a blind man newly gifted with sight: they knew. All these writers, these sowers of stories, these tellers of tales—they are not prophets like Chuck Shirley, and yet they could see what Castiel could not. What Heaven did not. The ending: maybe not the only one, maybe not even the most likely, but the most honest, the most true.
Beside him, he hears Dean shift: he has grown bored, and is finding the remote, shutting off the TV. Cas waits, happily, patiently, and then, as he knows he will, Dean turns and wraps his arm around Cas’ bare chest. Cas sets his book aside without regrets.
He must be smiling, because although Dean smiles back, a curious crease appears on his forehead. “What are you thinking about?”
Cas eases himself into the embrace. “They knew about love, Dean.”
“Yeah?” Dean says, like he doesn’t really know what Cas is talking about. But it doesn’t matter: whether or not he understands the conversation, he understands.
And Cas is sick of talking anyway.
Soon they are naked together, and Cas is tasting the salt on Dean’s skin, feeling his warmth and his weight and all the ways they can fit together, come together, come. Dean’s body under Cas’ hands is as solid as rock and as soft as clay, and Cas holds him by the hips and kisses him until they are both relaxed and pliant: lying together in the dark, naked and unashamed.
This is how, this is always how, the story begins.
NOTES:
1. Genre Blindness, for the uninitiated. A real problem I think the angels might have. Though of course it may work out better for Cas when the genre in question is “slash fanfic” as opposed to the show’s “angsty angsty manpain.”
2. A certain line taken directly from 4x20, obviously.
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(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-08 09:50 pm (UTC)